


Like A Feather In The Storm's Eye

by MeadowWard



Series: One More Time To Live [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeadowWard/pseuds/MeadowWard
Summary: Grant once heard someone describe falling in love like falling asleep; “slowly, then all at once”. He thought it was bullshit. Then he fell in love with Jemma Simmons. Prequel to "One More Time To Live".





	Like A Feather In The Storm's Eye

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story serves as a prequel to “One More Time To Live”. It’s written from Grant’s perspective and takes place before the prologue of the main story, which is now updated.

Grant once heard someone describe falling in love like falling asleep; “slowly, then all at once”. It was from some movie Skye had made the rest of the team watch during a rare movie night. The movie was okay, but he thought that sentiment was bullshit the moment he’d heard it. Granted, that was before he’d ever been in love. Now that he had… well, it was still bullshit, to be honest. See, there’s a certain amount of peace that comes with falling asleep, that moment when a person’s body finally succumbs and drifts off into unconsciousness, and maybe into dreams. This, whatever it was, was the polar opposite of peace. He had never felt so uneasy, so anxious, and it was all because of ( _thanks to?_ ) Her. Also, he happened to like sleep. He wasn’t so sure he liked this feeling; he especially didn’t care for its dry-mouth, sweaty palm, heart-racing side effects.

It took him a long time to admit to his feelings for Jemma, in part because every impulse he had concerning her could be written off easily as being a part of his job as a specialist. Trying to keep her in his sights anytime they were in the field? Just making sure all of his teammates were accounted for. Lingering a little too close by as she worked? He wanted to be available in case she needed help in the unlikely event that their areas of expertise intersected. Carrying heavy objects for her without asking? Easy; he didn’t want her to strain herself and get hurt. She was an asset to the team and any time lost due to injury would make for slack the rest of them would need to pick up. Making sure she ate well and rested in between missions? 

Well… that one he had no answer for, but three out of four wasn’t so bad. 

It was Skye who first woke him to his feelings for Jemma and made him realize that, no, the way he treated her wasn’t the way he typically treated his co-workers. Some off-hand, snarky comment she made during a workout gave him pause and set everything into motion. 

It was all Skye’s fault, is what he was saying. 

No matter how cavernous the Bus seemed at times, its space was still pretty finite, so a lot of places served dual functions. Their makeshift gym was located in the loading bay just outside the lab. He had been holding the punching bag still for Skye but kept Jemma in his periphery as she worked at the table. He couldn’t quite see what she was working on, only that she held a scalpel and was working the blade in short, careful strokes. The tip of her tongue was out, held between her pearly-white teeth as her brow furrowed in concentration. Behind her Fitz stumbled -over his own feet, no less; the other scientist had the grace of a newborn giraffe- and suddenly dropped a tray of tools, which landed with a loud, piercing clatter. Jemma jumped, her focus broken, and when she lifted her hand next, there was a small cut on her left thumb, the blood beading through the latex glove. 

Without realizing what he was doing, Grant released the punching bag and walked briskly towards the lab doors. Letting the bag swing freely nearly knocked Skye onto her ass (she was thrown off-balance, having been mid-punch when he let go) but he was only barely aware of her protests as he rushed over to Jemma. She was already applying gentle pressure to the cut, laughing a little at her own clumsiness.

“Just a small knick, Grant.” Jemma assured him, discarding her glove and walking to the sink. He followed behind her. Closely.

“A lot of blood for a ‘small knick’.” he replied, not convinced. “Can I take a look?”

She shot him a sidelong glance, smirking a little. “Don’t tell me you got your field medical certification when I wasn’t looking.”

He hadn’t, but responded by saying, “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“She’s _fine_.” Fitz declared from behind the pair. He was crouched, placing all of his tools back on the tray. His responses came in between muttered, colorful curses. “It comes with the territory when you work with sharp tools.” 

“And look. All patched up.” Jemma waved her clean, bandaged finger at Grant. “You can go back to your workout. Skye’s waiting.”

“Yeah, Ward.” A sweaty, cranky Skye said from the doorway. “Skye’s waiting.”

He looked at Jemma one more time, who once again waved him out, assuring him she was fine. Soon, he was back at the bag with Skye. For a few minutes, no sound could be heard but the rhythmic _pound-pound-pound_ of her fists on the bag. Anytime Skye was silent for a length of time, it usually spelled trouble. His teeth were already gritted by the time she spoke next.

“So… got a crush on Jemma, do you?”

And there it was.

He narrowed his eyes, glaring at her from over the bag, but didn't protest. 

“Oh, and he says _nothing!_ Well, well, well…”

He really didn’t appreciate her teasing. “I’m just trying to decide whether I’m going to make you do extra push-ups or pull-ups as punishment for making fun of your supervising officer.”

She grinned and kept striking. Her jabs were sloppy, sloppier than usual. It took him a few seconds to realize her punches were landing so poorly because she was laughing at him, her shoulders shaking and everything. 

“What’s so funny?” he dared to ask, and soon regretted it. 

“You are!” she exclaimed, steadying the bag as she took a break. “You like Jemma.”

“I like all of you.” Even if that didn’t always seem to be the case, it was true. To everyone’s surprise -his own, most of all- he had really started to care about the people on their team. 

“Yeah, but you _like_ her. Like, _like_ like. You know?” She waggled her eyebrows up and down for emphasis, her cheeks dimpled as she guffawed at his expense. 

He refused to be baited. “Pull-ups. Definitely pull-ups.” 

She groaned, stamped her feet, and protested loudly, but Skye nonetheless followed as Grant marched her over to the pull-up bar. She complained the whole time, but he was persistent, counting out her completed reps while leaning against the wall, one eye on the lab and the scientist inside it the entire time.

* * *

 

It took him a few weeks after Skye’s ribbing for Grant to come to terms with the fact that, yes, he cared for Jemma in a different and deeper way from his other coworkers. He liked Coulson and May well enough, the way one does their superiors: with a healthy respect, and usually at arm’s length. He and Fitz were still sparring (verbally, not physically, for which Fitz was surely grateful), and they went through cycles of tolerating and loathing one another in turn. At a glance, Grant supposed he and Skye seemed a more apparent match. They constantly butted heads, but they also had great conversations. With Jemma… there was none of that with Jemma, and yet there was so much _more_ than that. There were no games, no changing affections, no unpredictable swings of mood; instead, a constant thread of fondness informed all of their interactions. Every word felt weighted somehow, every touch (he only ever let her patch him up post-mission, and coincidence of coincidences, he’d been sustaining more and more minor wounds ever since he realized how he felt about her) felt stolen and exciting. If she knew how he felt, she didn’t say so, but whenever he tried to hold her gaze her eyes dropped away, her face turning rosy as she blushed. 

“You should say something.” Skye said to him one afternoon during their second workout of the day. He was holding her ankles while she did sit-ups ( _complete_ sit-ups, not crunches, he had to keep reminding her). 

“Say what? And to who?”

“I think it’s ‘to whom’.” she teased, grunting her way to the top of one sit-up. Only her thirtieth. “To… ugh… Jemma.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” An out and out lie, but he wasn’t about to give Skye the satisfaction. She smirked but said no more. 

* * *

 

A mission took them to Wrigley, Pennsylvania. It should have been easy, but they were never that lucky. 

It was there Jemma contracted an alien virus from an infected corpse. Grant wasn’t sure about the science of it. All he knew was she could have died, and there was a day where it felt like the whole team was holding their breath, and she launched herself out of the bay doors to make sure she didn’t take the rest of them with her. 

He jumped after her, the newly completed anti-serum in his hands, his parachute only half-buckled. He realized after the fact how stupid it was. She could’ve infected him, could’ve killed him with the pulse she released shortly after he injected her. If he hadn’t deployed the chute in time, the impact with the water from such a great height and speed would have been deadly. There were a dozen things that could’ve gone wrong the moment he went after her, and he didn’t think twice about any of them, didn’t pause, didn’t flinch, because _it was Jemma_. He ignored over a decade of training and experience and dove after her with one single thought in his mind: he had to catch her. He did not become fully conscious of the weight of his actions until he was careening towards earth, slicing through wind and sky and space to grab her. 

He had pulled her close as they fell (noting he had never before imagined an embrace could be so high stakes) and didn’t let go, held on to her tightly even as they landed in the icy water below. The virus -and her frantic search for a cure- had left her exhausted so he tread water for the both of them, his arms locked around her waist, her legs wrapped around his. He didn’t let go until SHIELD agents stationed in Morocco had fished them out of the water and dropped them off at the Bus. 

When Coulson finished his fatherly reprimand and Skye had finished hugging her desperately, Grant walked Jemma to her bunk. 

“You gonna be ok?” he asked as they came to a stop beside her door. 

She smiled and nodded. “I still feel a little out of sorts, but I’m sure it’s nothing a nap can’t fix.” Then, she put her hand on his arm. Her hands were small, petite, just like the rest of her, but her touch seemed to radiate heat that quickly filled him. “Thank you, Grant. What you did for me was very brave. I’m not sure I can ever repay you.”

_You could have dinner with me._ he thought errantly, but did not say. Asking her to dinner at that moment would have felt predatory, as if he were taking advantage of her brush with death and his “heroism”, so he wisely abstained. Instead, he said, “I’m just happy you’re safe.” 

“Well, it’s all thanks to you.”

“Not really.” He didn’t mean to sound dismissive, so he was quick to add, “Fitz was trying to come after you, too, I just got to the bay doors first. And he was the one who handed me the injector.” Grant was hesitant to take more credit than he deserved. “There were a lot of factors at play, a lot of people acting bravely today. Not just me.” 

“Their bravery doesn’t diminish yours. I’m very grateful to everyone, and to you.” Before he was completely cognizant of what was happening, the hand on his arm slid upwards, the other joining it to come behind his neck as she raised onto her tiptoes and embraced him. Even on tiptoe, she was still a whole head shorter than him, and her cheek rested against his chest. There was a second or two where he was in shock, surprised both by the hug and by the fact she managed to catch him off-guard with it, but finally he put his arms around her waist -she was so much smaller than him, he could nearly encircle her twice- and returned the hug. 

“I was really scared,” he admitted. The words were spoken into her hair, and it took a lot of willpower not to run his hands through it. He hadn’t earned that. Not yet.

She nodded against his heart. “So was I. It was a far fall.”

“… That’s not what I meant.” He pulled away slightly so he could look into her eyes. “I wasn’t scared of that. Not of the fall. I wasn’t even scared of the virus.” Having arrived at the moment of truth, Grant felt his throat grow thick, like it was closing up. He had to finish his confession at a whisper. “I was scared for you, Jemma, and for me. I was scared I was gonna lose you.” It was a realization he’d had halfway through that endless, horrible day. She was going to die, and he was going to lose her forever. She wasn’t even really _his_ to lose, not that that had been any consolation in the moment. 

Her mouth formed a small “o” of realization, her hazel eyes widening. His admission had struck her momentarily speechless. She said nothing, even as he untangled from her hold, taking a step away and putting a respectful distance between them.

“You should get some rest.” Grant said when several long, uncomfortable seconds had passed and she still had given no reply. She made no move at first, but eventually turned toward her room. He waited until she had stepped inside and closed the door to walk away, uncertain whether or not he had made a mistake by being so open (well, open for him, anyway) with his feelings.  

So yeah, no; falling in love was nothing like falling asleep. It was a goddamn ambush. 

 


End file.
